About Scott K. Andrews

I am Scott Keegan Andrews, this is my website. I write books, plays, articles and reviews. I am represented by Oliver Munson at A. M. Heath.

I began writing professionally in my 30th year. I am writing this in my 40th year. I work on the perhaps optimistic principle that I will die or lose interest in working somewhere around my 80th year. This means I am about 10 years into a 50-year career. I reckon I'm doing okay so far, given that I'm not even a quarter done yet.

At any rate, this is what I mutter to myself whenever I consider how young Buddy Holly, Mozart and James Dean were when they died.

There is a wikipedia page about me. It has many omissions and contains much that is apocryphal, or at least wildly inaccurate. If you wish to amend it, feel free. I never edit it myself, feeling that somehow it would be egotistical to do so. Instead I have devoted an entire website to myself. This is not egotistical at all. Really.

I have a Facebook account, but please don't be offended if I refuse your friend request. I like to keep my Facebook account for family and close friends. I resisted setting up a fan page on Facebook for a long time, feeling that somehow it would be egotistical to do so, but eventually I caved - My Facebook Page.

I have a private life, which I like to keep private, however when politely pressed I will admit to being a husband and a father to two offspring. When impolitely pressed I will whip out photos of my wife and kids and bore you for hours about how awesome they are.

I will write for money. I will also write for free, but only if you make a donation to the bank account of my choice (hint: mine). Call me crazy, but I prefer to feed my kids with food I have paid for with money I have earned, rather than with the air generated by repeated use of the phrase 'but it'll be great publicity!'.

I am unfailingly kind and patient to small children and animals. I make no promises in respect of my conduct towards adults and monsters.

I very occasionally blog about my day job. Sorry. When I do this, please bear in mind that none of the views published here necessarily reflect the views of my employers, publishers, family, friends, pets, children et al. I mean, they might do, I haven't asked them, but best take it as read that they disagree violently and think me, frankly, a bit of an embarrassment. It'll be safer for everyone that way.

Yesterday the Department for Culture, Media and Sport renamed itself the Department for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport. I ran digital comms for the DCMS for about a year 2009/10 (honest, I did), a period which covered the last six months of the Labour government and the first six months of the coalition. During the first half of my time there, we redesigned & rewrote the website, but we couldn’t launch our shiny new digital efforts (long since replaced by the much better gov.uk) till after the election. As the extended purdah negotiations ended, and the new government was announced, we launched the new site and rebranded our Twitter account, which at that point had a few thousand followers. Despite my presence, I often had a hard time convincing some of my colleagues in the Press Office about the importance of digital communications. This scepticism was reflected upstairs after the election. Upon being shown the department’s new digital presence, one newly minted Tory minister, who will remain nameless, asked me, incredulous, why we even had a website, let alone social media accounts, and wanted to know why we needed to ‘communicate to the public’ at all – he thought digital communications was completely irrelevant to his job or his Dept. One of the few times in my life I’ve been genuinely left speechless. Anyway, as the new ministers were appointed that first day, I monitored Twitter and saw a rumour beginning to spread. According to sources, the Dept was going to take responsibility for the Olympics (true) and was going to rebrand as the DOCMS, requiring an expensive rebranding...

My first trilogy of novels, collected in School’s Out Forever, were set within the shared world of Abaddon’s Afterblight Chronicles. They’re pretty good, and you should totally pick up a copy (hint! hint!) Ahem, anyway… this August a new Afterblight omnibus is released containing three novellas: Fall Out by Simon Guerrier, which is a sequel to my trilogy, and picks up with the St Mark’s gang a few years after Children’s Crusade – we spoke about the book in this interview Children of the Cull by Cavan Scott, which is a sequel to the two books that kicked off the series, The Cull by Simon Spurrier and Kill of Cure by Rebecca Levene Flaming Arrows by Paul Kane, which is the fourth story in his Hooded Man series (which crossed over with my books a bit) Check out the cover, and pre-order it now, if you fancy checking in on a world I had a whale of a time playing...

Twenty five years ago I visited a town in Poland called Starachowice. Since WW2 it had been a town that produced trucks – Star Trucks – and almost nothing else. When I visited, in the early 90s, the factory had closed and unemployment was through the roof. The town felt lost, abandoned, the populace shocked and confused. Even today, the town receives special economic privileges, still reeling from the loss of its industrial heart. It’s not just in planned economies that towns specialise, and ultimately pay the price. Northampton, which I visited this week, was a town of cobblers, and something about it put me in mind of Starachowice. How or why a town organically comes to specialise in a particular industry without Communist central control, I don’t know, but Northampton made shoes and boots, enjoying a boom that lasted from the Napoleonic Wars until demand died away between the world wars. And even though its main industry pretty much died away decades ago, there is a feeling about some parts of the town – not all, but definitely some – that it’s still a bit lost to itself, somehow not entirely sure what it’s for now, like an old soldier sat in the corner of the pub, ignored because nobody wants to hear his stories anymore. Echoes of Northampton’s past as a town of shoemakers abound in the tangle of streets where I’m staying this week, from the abandoned factories, like Waukerz Boot Factory- an oddly punk name in 19th century stonework… …to the house names… …to this tile, randomly stuck halfway up a wall – a small, oddly formal piece of...

Cornwall, England, 1645 Lord Henry Sweetclover was woken by Sarah’s cries. There was a dull ache in his head, his bones felt heavy and old, his mouth gummy and foul. He reached over to the other side of the bed, but found it cold. This wasn’t unusual. His wife was an early riser and normally left him to sleep away the morning. Last night’s revelries had been particularly drunken and energetic, so he had expected that she would break her habit and lie in with him as she sometimes did on those occasions when the wine flowed freely. She had proved herself immune to most things, but a hangover was not one of them. He rubbed his forehead, which made bright flashing lines appear behind his eyes, so he stopped that, groaned and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow, trying to blot out the noise. He wondered what could have made his wife rise early after such a night. He thought back, trying to recall whether she had given any indication as to her intended business this day, but he could bring nothing to mind. Except, now he thought about it, she had seemed slightly out of sorts earlier the previous day. Her demeanour had worsened throughout the afternoon such that he was sure he was due a long evening of silent reproach and frosty disregard. He was pleasantly surprised when she produced the cards and the wine as the sun was setting, and even more pleased at what followed after. But on reflection there had been an edge to her revelry. A hint of determination, recklessness,...